Wednesday for You
by wherefore-suchas
Summary: He touches my hand and shrugs. There's a small hopelessness in it. We're stuck. What can we do? I swallow hard. "How's Wednesday for you?"


Wednesday for You

_Make up your mind/Decide to walk with me/Around the lake tonight/By my side._ – Toadies, _Possum Kingdom_

You have no idea how manytimes I've changed my shirt. Sad, right? I mean, I don't want to be late and I'd be the last person to deny anyone an occasional bona fide wardrobe crisis, but the two things hitched together are intensely frustrating.

It's that point when your body turns all elbows and the cloth keeps getting bunched up and caught on all those new corners 'til you're convinced that you'll have to spend the rest of your life stuck inside the neck and shoulders of an inside-out shirt, with both your hands raised high. Somewhere in the deep, dark corners of my brain, I'm probably searching for something to make me look older.

Like I'll be able to drop a piece of cotton-blend fabric down over my shoulders and _poof!_ I'll be magically catapulted forward in time. Yeah, well, that falls a little beyond the purview of the fabric of our lives, I _know_. But, God, isn't it just like some stupid Lifetime movie of the week? The billionaire with the requisite shady past and the naive, blonde high schooler. If I were writing it, I'd call it _Ashes of Innocence_.

Really.

It'd make a fortune and then I'd make another fortune writing the authorized novelization and _then_ I wouldn't have to worry about how I'm going to pay for college anymore.

As hard as I'm trying, as much as I'm letting my brain invent wild scenarios of tawdry biopic success, I can't quite shake the sour dread in the pit of my stomach.

I settle on the peacock blue cap-sleeve, the one that makes my eyes look like something that reminds me of Brooke Shields in that _Blue Lagoon_ movie.

Not so much the best analogy, huh? I mean it's not as if I'm some babe in the woods when it comes to this stuff. Playing the role of the sexual innocent isn't nearly my cup of tea. And I know—I think—well, I _hope_ that Lex knows that too.

This particular twist in my line of speculation slams me back into the present with a rush of emotions. _Oh, let's get going this _century_; any day now. Sometime while you're still young enough to peek into the town library's copy of the Kama Sutra._

I did, once or twice, I'll admit it right now. Although whether I'll ever admit it out loud is a whole other story. I snatched it and retreated to a far corner of the nonfiction stackswith my prize. You know, when you set it on its spine, the book automatically falls open to the most interesting parts. The soft tangle of limbs made my mouth go dry. I was eager and frightened at the same time.

I don't know what to expect and I don't particularly like the feeling.

I smooth my hair as best I can and check in my bag for the fifth time. Nope, nothing's managed to grow little feet and dash away since the last time I looked. I grab the strap and heft the bag over my shoulder.

You can say it. I'm dawdling. I know it. They must've practically invented the word knowing someday I'd need it to describe myself at this particular moment.

Because, even though I never met the man, even if he died before I was born, I'm so sure Daniel Webster's life revolved around me. I'm sure he got to the Ds and just _knew_ that, in the future, this naive blonde high schooler would be stalling on the brink of doing something risky. And that she'd be jittery-excited at the same time.

Lex has been disturbing my sleep ever since that night at the club. I've imagined the feel of his firm, warm hands worrying at my hips, stroking lower. My mind playing tricks led me to thoughts of his mouth, parted lips, darkness inside. Like chocolate.

_The Song of Solomon_ is a tune of honeyed mouths and red ribbon lips. I can see that. I completely understand that. Well, okay, not _completely _completely. In 72 hours I've managed to make myself crazy. _Make myself...funny, Sullivan_.

Earlier this afternoon, I left my car parked in front of The Beanery, figuring that I'd need to walk off some of my anxiety. Anxiety is an understatement, but it's a beautiful afternoon. Sunshine on my shoulders makes me blah dee blah.

Sometimes you just have to stop and wonder how certain things will look afterwards in that 20/20 rearview. Despite all my wondering, it's rare that I ever get it right beforehand. I'm really working on that whole "go with the flow" thing.

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that the tinny, little honk manages to surprise the hell outta me. I yelp unattractively and turn to scowl at Heinrich. He's having a hard time pacing me on his Vespa. He has to constantly weave the handlebars back and forth to keep himself upright. "Heinrich, you rat!"

"Dollface!" Heinrich opens his eyes scary wide and bats his eyelashes furiously. "You never call. You never write. I die of love. All for you!"

"Hmm, I must've completely forgotten about all those lovelorn letters from you spilling out of my mailbox each day. And how you fill up my answering machine with nothing but sobbing." I purse my lips and make a face at him. "The mailman says for you to stop writing so much though. All that weight is bad for his lumbago."

Heinrich laughs. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, darling."

"Oh," I say sadly, "it's the backside that's my bad side, isn't it? I knew I was wasting my time with that damn stairmaster." He turns off the engine and uses his feet to push the scooter alongside me.

"I can count on one hand the times I've ever talked to you seriously."

"I only reserve this kind of affection for my closest friends. This is the real me. You should be flattered."

"I am. Believe me, I am." He pats the seat behind him. "C'mon. Let's go someplace fun."

I shake my head. "The Wild Coyote is _not_ fun."

"What about the adult bookstore?" He winks. Damn that charm anyway. "The Lion's Den? Yuck. You're riding 30 miles on that thing?"

He reaches down and lovingly strokes the Vespa's off-white side. "You think she can't go that far?"

"Not even the issue. The last time I took a ride on...uh...her I thought my teeth would rattle right out of my head. I don't think you'd want the dentistry bills."

"To be fair, it was a dirt road."

"Answering once and for all the age-old question: is a KitchenAid blender an off-road vehicle?"

Heinrich chuckles. "Are you coming or are you going to be here bitching long into the night?"

"Can't. I have an interview." I tighten my hand on the strap of my bag.

"Some interview. Haven't seen you this made-up since we went undercover to bust that guy for running the brothel out of his Motel 6."

"Helpful, Heinrich. Really helpful." The last thing I need is him pointing out that I've got inadvertent hooker makeup. I scrub at my cheeks as surreptitiously as I can. God. This isn't going well at _all_.

"Mascara." He runs his thumb across my cheekbone. "Who is he?"

"Who says it's a 'he'?" I shoot back. Luckily, my voice sounds a lot less flustered than I feel. I jam my hands into my jeans' pockets. For a minute he's too shocked to speak. His mouth works up and down. With an effort, he regains control.

"Warn a guy, huh?"

"I assumed you could handle it."

He starts the Vespa's motor. "Well, can I give you a ride anyhow? The least I can do is happily enable the girl-on-girl."

"Sure, I guess." I swing my leg over and clumsily settle my hands on Heinrich's shoulders. "I'm parked in front of The Beanery."

He twists around to look at me. "Maybe someday you'll let me watch?"

I roll my eyes and snort before resting my cheek against his back. Feeling the engine vibrations come up through his body is unexpectedly relaxing. He's warm. He smells nice.

Sheer physicality can be such a comfort sometimes. But do you know what it feels like to be nervous? Really, really nervous? The kind that rises up over any attempts at relaxation. My arms feel cold. Beyond mere butterflies, there are gerbils scampering in my bloodstream. Teeny tiny gerbils with teeny tiny gerbil feet. Heinrich pulls the scooter right up beside my car a few minutes later. He taps my knee.

"I'm not meeting a woman!" I burst out. Stepping over the back of the bike I almost spill into a messy puddle on the sidewalk.

"What?"

"Not a woman. Lex. Mr. Luthor. Lex," I babble. Curse my damned guilty conscience. And curse the confessional nature of my stupid smarty-pants brain. Not everyone needs or wants to know about everything that goes on in my head. Maybe someday I'll learn to keep my big mouth shut about little secrets. Big secrets? No problem at all. Clark in Metropolis? Not a peep outta me on that one.

Dammit.

Heinrich pulls off his helmet, which makes his hair stand up in these manic tufts that I desperately need to smooth down. So I run my hands over his head. "I'm sorry, my ears seem to be playing tricks on me."

I scowl at him. He sticks his tongue out and winks.

"You heard me right first time, buddy."

"Maybe so," he concedes. "Maybe so." Sad to say, my hands are shaking a bit by now. Heinrich twines his fingers in mine. "Imagine you, nervous!"

"Imagine that," I admit bitterly. God, what possessed me? Who do I think Lex and I are, Abelard and Heloise? John Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir? Am I envisioning the tragic lover scenario? How melodramatic. Oh so very, painfully, expectedly high school.

Heinrich cocks his head to one side and regards me. Approximately a million years go by. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. Awkwardly, he leans down from the Vespa and kisses my cheek. His two-day stubble is as artful as ever, scratchy against my chin. "Catch you later, huh? Be careful."

"Sure thing." Even if I'm not exactly sure which part of his statement I'm responding to, but he's helped me somehow. The truth is a girl likes to have a support system. And if part of that support system happens to be an Austrian who makes her breath catch a little every time she sees him? Well, so much the better.

I unlock the car, climb in and start it up. It takes less time than it should to get to Lex's house. I wave to the guard at the gate who barely looks at me as I go through. Jeez. The old chestnut about good help and how hard it is to find? Totally.

But was the driveway always so long? Nerves are giving me vertigo. I laugh ruefully. Vertigo on the ground. I park and scrub my damp palms on my jeans.

The bag tangles with the automatic shoulder belt as I'm trying to pull it out and I tug irritably. I hate that feeling when it's like everything about you and the world isn't quite where you left it the moment before. Shins to tables. Feet stumble down stairs. Bags staunchly refuse to exit cars. That sort of thing. I wrench the bag free and now I'm grumbly. Perfect. Don't I always aim to charm and amuse?

Lex's doorbell is fairly astonishing. You can hear deep echoes forever after you press it. Do you know how _big_ something has to be before it creates an echo? I firmly stamp down the needling voice in my head that's trying its darndest to make me feel small and grubby. But the big secret about courage is to do the thing even though you're scared, not because you're not scared at all.

"Can I help you?" I start at the voice.

"Sorry. I was wool-gathering." Enough wool to knit about four sweaters, but whatever.

"Miss?" The man who'd opened the door is middle-aged and wearing an expression of well-bred concern.

"I'm Chloe Sullivan and I have an appointment."

The man's subtly wrinkled forehead smooths. "Oh yes. You're expected. Come in."

"Is he in his office? I can just go on up." The man nods. I have to do this all by myself. I dry my palms on my jeans again and gently tug on the hem of my shirt.

In spite of my scenic trip through the stained glass window that one time, I've always loved Lex's house. Everything's on such a grand scale. There's a constant, textured transition going on. High gloss hardwood floors give way to lush, deep-pile Persians in jewel tones that glow feverishly. There's a Van Gogh in the foyer, blazing with his signature thickly daubed paint, marred only by certain small, brown cracks that come with age.

As I climb the stairs I think of _Jabberwocky_ in my head to keep from worrying. Each step is a different line. I've just reached "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?" when I get to the top.

I can hear the murmur of voices when I'm about halfway down the hall. I slow, unsure of what to do. My ears strain to catch hold of the conversation. Do you ever go through strangers' medicine cabinets? I figure journalistic instinct is something along those lines.

Once, when I was babysitting, I found a stash of Hustlers in a bedside table. But that? That wasn't like the _Kama Sutra_ at all. I was frightened of those women with no body hair and no pores and breasts like flotation devices. I know it's not what anyone really expects in the really real world, but you have that picture in your head anyway. It's hard to help. Softly, I move toward the partially opened door, clutching my bag so it won't bang against me.

Another thing about Lex's house—it's a study in perpetual twilight. The stained glass at the end of the hallway (that I've been so familiar with in the past) throws slashes of color into the murk.

"I don't see why you're being so difficult." The rasp is instantly recognizable. "I would have expected more enthusiasm from you."

"I'm just a constant disappointment, right Dad?" I can definitely pick out the trace bitterness underneath Lex's controlled tone. He's had this argument before, so it's worn into him. They have it on long-playing record now I hear: _Dysfunctional Family Suite_.

Now I feel awful. There's something so—naked about families fighting.

When Mom and Dad were having troubles, they'd always close their bedroom door and play the radio really loud: KARW—Classic Rock. To this day, I can't listen to Simon and Garfunkle without a twinge of leftover conditioning from that last closed-door fight before Mom left. Left: it's the euphemism I'm choosing to believe in at the moment. It's a lot prettier than "abandoned." But despite all that, I can't help myself from listening to Lex and his father. I'm torn so often.

Dysfunction is naked, true enough, but it reassures me that I'm not alone. I don't defend it. I'll own that duality. It's mine, after all.

I press my cheek against the door, breathing as silently as I can.

"Don't be melodramatic, Lex," Lionel says sharply. "I know you've been dying to leave this town."

"It was my punishment, yes."

"A fact you never failed in reminding me."

"It's not a punishment now. Not anymore."

"For God's sake, Lex, what's changed?"

"Surely you've heard of Stockholm Syndrome. I've come to identify with my captors."

"LuthorCorp _needs_ you in New York."

"And LexCorp needs me here."

"Then I suppose we have nothing more to say to one another."

"I guess not. I'm surprised we've gotten this far."

Footsteps.

_Shit._ I've lingered too long. Some days I tell myself that giving in to my need to know is a human trait. That it's some universal invariant. Other days, I'm sure as I can be that no one else could be as weak as I am. A stronger person would be able to keep her nose out of certain things that don't concern her in the slightest. Definite second case moment right now.

But I'm still going to justify this, if only in my head. I keep my feelings inside out. As much as I try to be inscrutable it's inevitable, just like with Heinrich earlier, I can't even keep my own secrets. But Lex can. Better than anyone I've ever met so far. He's right side out and his surface is smooth and glassy. If I weren't so stubborn I might never know what goes on in his head, but even that only goes so far. So I've stooped to snooping. It's not like I'm proud of that, but I'm not exactly wholly ashamed of it either.

Of course, the freaking tragic irony of the situation is that I more or less did the same thing to Clark when I was interested in _him_. Some people might have learned something from the fallout in _that_ situation. I pride myself on my uncanny ability to make the same mistake twice.

Moving as quickly and quietly as I can, I cross the hallway and yank open the first door I come to, jumping into the room and easing the door shut behind me.

Grateful that I haven't been caught, I move away from the door, close my eyes and slump on the floor with my back against the cool stone wall. My heart is pumping so fast it feels like there's a largeish hummingbird trapped inside my ribcage. Eyes still closed, I make an effort to return my breathing to normal. And that's about when I feel something touch the hollow of my throat. I brush my right hand gingerly against it—slender and metal and sharp where the tip digs oh-so-slightly into my skin. My breath stops and I can't seem to remember how to get it to start again.

"It's impolite to eavesdrop."

I squint into the dark, but I can't see anything, so I take a shaky breath and catch hold of the tail end of my rapidly fleeing courage. "Got to love that the man with the _sword_ at my _throat_ is delivering the etiquette lecture. Really takes the phrase 'captive audience' to an entirely new level."

"You're trespassing. There was no way I could be certain it was you in here."

"And now you know, yet there's still the matter of the pointy thing aching to perform a makeshift tracheotomy." A beat. "It's not trespassing anyhow. I have an appointment, in case you've forgotten."

"I hadn't forgotten. The appointment gives you access from point A to point B. This just so happens to be point Z."

"So what are you going to do? Run me through? That is a fencing foil you've got, isn't it?"

"This isn't exactly how I envisioned the day progressing." He flicks on the light and I blink rapidly to adjust my eyes. In the meantime, the foil point disappears from my neck. So that's one less thing I have to worry about at least. _Prominent Local Busybody Skewered_ isn't exactly a headline I'd want _The Ledger_ to be running anytime soon.

"Believe it or not, the highlight of my day isn't hearing the Luthor men fight."

"We weren't..."

"Oh no, I forgot the part where you're not like other human beings. Perish the thought of doing anything so common." What is it about him that brings out the worst, most confrontational part of me? He's like a piece of grit in my eye. I just can't keep from worrying it. I know. I know. Romantic, huh?

But then, I might be the same thing to him. And the thought of it sends happy shivers down my spine because I know we're both a little perverse just. like. that. Lex sighs wearily and runs his free hand over his head. "I sometimes wonder how you managed to come up with your image of me, Chloe."

"I don't understand." He grabs my left hand firmly and pulls me to my feet. Clumsy me, I stumble against him, bracing the heels of my hands against his chest. I lean in as close as I dare and breathe deeply. His cologne reminds me of earth and lawn clippings in the heat of summer. There's something dark and green about it. Right now, we make a fine living sculpture, neither of us moving further apart. Underneath his soft, cotton shirt, his body is tense. Amazing what impeccable tailoring can cover. I relax a little even as I feel my cheeks getting hot. If he's nervous too that makes everything at least a tiny smidge better. "What image of you?" I ask, rephrasing my earlier question.

"The part of me that lives inside your head. The shorthand collection of electrical impulses. The way you see me without needing to _see_ me."

"Am I being accused of preconceived notions?"

"You have them, don't you? We all do."

"You're trying to get me to admit that I don't trust you. That I see you the same way everybody else does."

I realize I haven't removed my hands from his chest yet. I take them away with a weak, apologetic smile.

"Am I being accused of ulterior motives?"

"You have them, don't you?" I parrot neatly. "We all do." I tuck some of my hair behind my left ear. "Don't think I don't understand what's going on. You can give me the same courtesy."

"I believe," he says politely, reaching past me to open the door into the hallway, "that we have an appointment."

"We do," I return. It's a struggle to pretend to be so airy when that damn hummingbird in my chest invited friends and the friends wear tap shoes. I feel vaguely as if I'd like nothing better than to throw up.

Lex's fingertips skim lightly across the edge of my right shoulder blade as I walk out into the hallway. My skin pricks with goosebumps but I keep my head up, acting like I haven't felt a thing.

"Misappropriation of funds wasn't it?" His voice is close to my ear. Closer than it needs to be. I suppress a shiver.

"Yeah, but can we just hold off a second until I can get my tape recorder out?"

"Sure thing," he replies smoothly.

It's a struggle to meet him squarely, to put on as many airs as he does. To act like butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. My brain feels like the blades in a Slurpee machine. To be more specific: my brain feels as if it's being swirled by the blades in a Slurpee machine. I've always liked cherry. I find myself wondering what _he_ likes and what his reaction might be if I asked him. Kind of like those little what-if urges you get sometimes: what if I fell down these stairs? What if I drove off the road on purpose? Not that I'd _do_ anything like that at all. The urges are completely spasmodic and quite often self-destructive. Though the Slurpee thing wouldn't be so much self-destructive as—oh I don't know—kind of sexy in a way. All I can think of now is Lex and a straw. Lex with a purple dyed tongue sticking out for inspection. No question: I absolutely cannot be thinking about stuff like that right now. It makes my knees feel funny.

Alternative to the disastrous Slurpee musings, I most certainly am not concentrating on the way the lace on my brand new underwear set is itching against my skin. What on earth would possibly make me think of a thing like that? I twitch my shoulders, circling them back gently to loosen the muscles.

Oh but then, right when we're walking into the relative light in Lex's office and he brushes past me, I see something that makes me feel about a zillion times better: Lex is sweating. Oh it's subtle enough—tiny droplets beading at his temples—but to know that I haven't cast myself into this thing as the only one with overstimulated reservations is a comfort, no question. Just as I've come to this particular realization, Lex stops. He's holding his shoulders at a severe angle, almost a perfect 90 degrees from neck to arm.

"What are we doing here?" He looks at me and I feel as if his eyes cut right through. Definitely right through any bullshit answer I would ever think of giving.

There's no sense in lying or sugarcoating. I swallow hard. "I believe the popular phrase is 'tryst.'"

He laughs even though the way his eyebrows crinkle together lets me know that he doesn't think it's exactly the right thing to be doing at the moment. "Popular when?"

"I don't _know_," I return defensively, crossing my arms in an attempt to disguise my self-consciousness. "Shouldn't you know way more about this stuff than I do?"

"Way more about what stuff?" Now he's teasing gently. I feel the urge to laugh and cry in equal measures. It's not _fair_ that I should work so hard for this, but at the same time I love that he's not giving me an inch that I don't have to work for.

"You're the one with the shady past. Surely you've seduced your share of married socialites." He's not getting an unearned inch from me either.

"Is that what this is? A seduction?"

"Maybe. I don't feel very seduced," I say plainly.

"You're not married and you're not a socialite."

"Both things are true."

"Don't let me keep you here against your will." His eyes are so innocent. He's a trickster when he needs to be. Our conversation is starting to seem like sitting in the backseat of a car with no brakes.

"That's not what I meant at all."

"Really. What _did_ you mean?" He touches my forearm lightly, as if he needs to do anything to have my full attention. Scratch that car thing from before. Speaking to Lex Luthor feels like drowning in a sea of words, where nothing means exactly what it should.

I cover his hand with mine, intending to dislodge it, but instead we just stand there, frozen, for a moment. He takes my hand away and holds it, staring as if he can't quite figure out what he's got hold of.

"Will you tell my fortune if I cross your palm with silver?" I ask sweetly.

He drops my hand and smirks. "Have a seat, Chloe. Would you like something to drink?"

Just like that. Six words to bring the companionable banter to a grinding halt. Because, _really_.

_Oh God. Don't bring up your age. Dontbringupyourage._

"Um, no thanks?" my stupid voice squeaks upward, turning what should have been a statement into a question at the last second.

He shrugs elegantly before busying himself with the bar on the sideboard. "Suit yourself."

I put my bag down on the nearest chair. "What _are_ we doing here?" It's easier to talk when he's not watching me. My tongue, which felt slow and stupid only moments before, regains itself.

He doesn't answer for a long time. And he doesn't turn to look at me. An unreasonable lump rises in my throat, but I manage to mostly swallow it—with difficulty. _He's going to say this is a mistake. He's going to say that and then he's going to tragically disappear from my life forever like he's Johnny Depp and I'm Winona Rider and this is _Edward Scissorhands_ only my hair is nicer than Winona's and Lex is just bald instead of having scissorhands._

"I'm not sure," he admits finally.

Well, crap. Chalk one up to the power of negative thinking.

"Me neither. I mean I still mean what I said earlier, but I don't know what happens next. Like, how we're supposed to run this. I guess I had really assumed...I mean, I thought that you'd..."

"That I'd be experienced with this sort of thing? Yes, you said that before." When he finally turns around I can see he's got a death-grip on a glass filled halfway with ice and brown liquor.

"Well—yeah, but I meant it." _Crap._ "I mean...not experienced in _that_ way where you did it all the time because you're not shady. Not to me anyhow. But, you know, experienced in—"

A faint smile twitches on his lips. "I know what you mean, Chloe. I don't think prior experience is any kind of reputable guide. At least, I don't want it to be."

The last part, ladies and gents, is almost _bashful_. It's goddamn _adorable_. If I'd been thinking of haring off even milliseconds before, and that's not a complete admission, mind you, nosiree, the "goddamn _adorable_" factor would have stopped me dead in my scaredy-cat tracks.

"Then remind me why we're standing approximately a mile apart having this conversation."

He drains the glass in one go. "I can't think of a good reason right now." He sets the glass down.

This is it. This is _so_ it. But I am going to meet him halfway. No more of this silly pussyfooting around. If I learned _anything_ watching Clark and Lana's dance of unending courtship it's that unending pussyfooting is a sure recipe for unending heartbreak, even if you _do_ end up with the person you think you've wanted for so _so_ long.

So what we do is we meet in the middle. I'm hoping this is a promising metaphor too. The heel of his hand slides up my jawline until his fingers catch deeply in my hair. I stand on tiptoes, leaning into him, steadying myself with one hand on his left shoulder and the other on the crook of his neck. I suck gently on his bottom lip, softly nipping until he opens his mouth.

For this one, I close my eyes. I don't know how long it lasts. I'm not thinking straight except that it's lovely lovely to be deep inside his ribbon mouth while the rest of his body seems to cradle mine. I move the hand on his neck, stroking backwards until I'm lightly touching the ridge on the back of his head, which is smoother and softer than I thought it would be. His right hand floats upward, touching my ribcage just underneath my breast. His thumb presses gently against its underside. There's a warmth that, I swear, comes from his hand and fills my entire body.

After a time, we break away.

I think for a moment. I have to parse. I tilt my head critically and scrunch my eyebrows and look at him. "That didn't change much, did it?"

He cradles his chin between his thumb and the side of his index finger. "No, it didn't." And you have to believe me when I tell you I'm grateful that he hasn't said anything about when _he_ was my age. I guess, at the heart of it, I was kind of expecting the whole world to alter immediately when the truth is it won't really pay us any mind. "When you leave here, that's when things will change."

I press my lips together into a rueful shape. "I'd have thought you'd have a problem being the big, bad wolf."

He smiles inscrutably, looking down and to the side. "It doesn't bother me."

"And you assume it would bother me?" I tick off "one" on my fingers. "That's for one. For two, I know for a fact that it _does _bother you." I tick off "two."

"Chloe, _you're_ the one who brought it up."

"Well, great, our first fight. Good that we got it out of the—"

The second kiss is completely different from the first: hard and rough. Our teeth glance off each other's. It's messy and—damp, which I don't so much like, I don't think. It's getting increasingly difficult to form anything even in the same zip code as a rational thought, let alone the same neighborhood. We kiss as if we're two boxers sparring. He holds my head between his palms, trying to put me in a position _he_ wants, but I resist him, biting down hard on his lower lip until he loosens his grip. I'm tight against his body now, closer than I've ever been to him before. His long lines are like an arching bridge over me—graceful and strong and _there_. I'm going completely out of my little tiny mind. I want to climb up in the girders and nest until winter. Pressing even closer, my feet barely touching the ground anymore, I hold his head just so and shift my focus, running my tongue along the big vein in the side of his neck. He shudders. And that's it. He'll fall down on top of me, his supports too weak to hold us up any longer.

Right about now I'm realizing that this isn't so much a kiss as a force of nature. I don't see how I could've ever expected anything else. A girl has to stand firm in the presence of a Luthor. I can't believe I'm just figuring this all out now, but some things you can learn with advice and others you learn only with experience.

He grabs two handfuls of my hair and bends my neck back. His tongue worries my left earlobe and a shudder descends from my shoulders to my toes. There's pressure building between my legs. My hands grope blindly, kneading his thighs. He sucks in a ragged breath.

We don't even make the couch. He releases my head and kneels in front of me, raising my shirt just so much so he can lick the patch of skin right below my belly button. I touch his head, tentative at first, then more confidently. He undoes the button on my jeans with his mouth.

"I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue," I gasp.

"Really?" His own tongue slips behind the elastic waist on my underwear.

"Yeah, really."

The things I think of right now are not the things I should be thinking. I think about how he's right that everything will change as soon as I leave his house. Briefly, I think about how it would be so much easier to stay here forever so I'd never have to deal with the way things are going to change because, most likely, things are going to get kind of nasty.

But that's not quite my style of cowardice. I reach down and tug the top of Lex's left ear. He stands up. "Let's not change things quite so fast, huh?"

Confusion. _Tell me about it_.

I rebutton my pants.

"What kind of Slurpee do you like?"

"We're going to 7-11?"

"Maybe someday."

I can still feel the warmth from his mouth on my stomach.


End file.
